Blood Sisters: The #1 bestselling thriller from the author of My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  ‘Don’t,’ said Johnny, blinking rapidly again. She did that too, sometimes, when she got upset. ‘It’s not worth it. I’ll still be here when you get back. And you’ll look really pretty with your new teeth.’

  ‘OK,’ Kitty said. ‘I’ll go to the bloody dentist. But only for you.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re saying,’ sighed Very Thin Carer. ‘But as you’ve stopped shrieking now, we’ll accept that as an apology. Can someone help me with Kitty’s chair, please?’

  It wasn’t easy, but Kitty managed to turn round as she left. Johnny was waving at her and – wow! – blowing her a kiss. Kitty’s heart turned over. She could actually feel it doing so, inside her chest.

  Yet the best thing was that once he was her boyfriend he’d have to protect her. So if the flabby-faced man ever came back, she could get Johnny to sort him out.

  And then she’d never have to see him again.

  9

  November 2016

  Alison

  There have been no more notes.

  Maybe, I tell myself, it was just a prank. Some prisoner with a warped sense of humour. Or possibly an officer who was winding me up. (Angela had warned me that staff sometimes try to ‘test a newcomer’s mettle’.)

  Either way, I have put my fears to the back of my mind for self-preservation. It’s not as though I haven’t had practice. Instead I concentrate on the here and now. During the last few weeks, my classes have begun to fill up. That’s thanks to Kurt. He’s been advertising me madly. Enthusiastically running around with flyers. ‘My men’, as I think of them, are a loyal group. They seem to take pride in coming to my classes.

  ‘I’m learning lots from you, miss,’ Kurt said the other day.

  ‘I’m learning from you too,’ I say.

  It’s true, in a way. Already in such a short space of time, I’ve absorbed more than I could ever imagine. It’s like navigating a whole new world. Communication, for example. Because of the ‘no mobiles’ rule, it’s notoriously hard to get hold of anyone, either inside or out. Some staff have ordinary phones in their offices, but not all have answerphones. The other day I needed to find Sandra because the key to the Education block is hard to turn. Her office door was locked. I had to resort to slipping a note underneath, explaining the situation.

  How I love drawing out talent from these men around me! Talent that has possibly been lurking there for years but hasn’t had the opportunity to emerge. I like to think that my father would have been proud of me. Sometimes I even forget to cut myself in the evening. My adrenalin levels here are so high, always on the watch in case a prisoner does something, that I don’t have the same urge as before. Barry and his cat cartoons haunt me. I cannot look him in the face now. If only he’d stop coming to my class. But he’s become a firm regular.

  ‘Miss, how do I do whiskers again?’ he asks me this morning. It’s almost as if he knows that I know. Needling me. Wanting me to ask him how he could possibly have done something like that. Three children. Three.

  ‘Show you in a minute,’ I say curtly. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn.’

  Barry looks distinctly peeved, but Kurt gives me a conspiratorial nod. ‘Yeah, listen to Miss Alison, old man.’

  ‘Miss’ is a label that all the men give female staff, even if they’re married. But Kurt’s ‘Alison’ addition shows an unwelcome familiarity.

  I’ve purposely never mentioned my surname to my men. But I’m sure there are other ways of tracking people down. ‘Do you think Grandad is dangerous?’ I find myself asking Kurt as he helps me clear up. (Barry has just left, claiming to be on kitchen duty, but I can tell he’s in a huff because of my ‘wait your turn’ admonition.)

  ‘Why do you ask, miss?’

  I feel as though I’ve been caught out. It’s not considered ‘polite’ to ask what a criminal has done. ‘Someone told me about Barry and … and his crime,’ I venture. ‘I’m just a bit scared in case …’

  My voice runs out but Kurt steps in. ‘You’re worried he might kill again.’

  I nod.

  ‘Could do.’ He scratches his chin as if in thought. ‘When you’ve been inside for as long as he has, the thought of the outside is scary – especially if there are relatives of your victims waiting to get you. He’s up for parole soon but he might not want to leave. It’s possible that Grandad might do something bad here just to stay in the system and keep safe.’

  I bite my lip.

  ‘Don’t worry, miss.’ Kurt doesn’t exactly touch my arm in comfort but he looks as though he might. ‘The rest of us wouldn’t let no one hurt you. We like you.’

  Has a prisoner just offered to protect me? Have I been naive to confide in him? And – here’s the scary bit – Kurt genuinely did seem to think that Grandad might still be a threat. What if he moved from children to adults? Had I been too abrupt with him in class?

  The following day, I voice my fears to Angela. ‘Supposing I annoy someone somehow and they get one of their friends to pay me a visit at home?’ I think about that feeling I had the other day, like I was being watched, but I feel too stupid to voice this out loud.

  She puts her head to one side, suggesting I’ve made a valid point. A sense of unease crawls through me. ‘Goes with the job, I suppose. I don’t worry because I’ve got my Jeff.’ She laughs. ‘One look at my old man and any of this lot would scarper. Built like a tank, he is.’

  But I don’t have anyone. Only the other lodger and my landlord. Angela notices my silence. ‘You could try putting a man’s pair of boots outside your place. And keep your door on a chain. But that’s just common sense, isn’t it? To be honest, I’ve never heard of a prisoner going after a member of staff.’

  There’s always a first time, I tell myself silently.

  ‘Don’t look like that, love. You can’t get too uptight about all this. Otherwise we couldn’t do what we do.’

  ‘Angela! I’ve been wanting to catch you.’ A man with a clutch of earrings in his right ear plonks himself down at our table without so much as a ‘Do you mind?’ He could pass for a prisoner, but he’s staff. Works in our job centre: the part of the prison responsible for finding men work on the outside. ‘Need to talk to you about a reference. Got this inmate who might have a chance with a hotel vacancy.’

  I make my excuses and wend my way back through the cabins to my ‘studio’. This afternoon’s session is on portraits. In my local authority class I use mirrors so students can copy their reflection. But in prison, this isn’t allowed. So instead, they’re going to draw each other. Exercises in pairs are a good way to bring people together, anyway. Helps them chat. Discover common bonds. So I’ve been told.

  I unlock the art cupboard to get scissors and paper, which I will cut into squares. Then I freeze. On the top of the pile is a roughly torn-out cutting from the prison newsletter. It shows a photograph in the ‘Welcome to New Staff’ page. My photograph. In the middle of my face is a red drawing pin. Below, in childish-looking black felt-tip writing, are scrawled five words:

  I’M GOING TO GET YOU.

  Frantically I rip up the cutting into tiny bits, pricking myself on the drawing pin. Only then does it occur to me that I should have kept it intact. But a small part of me knows I would never show it to anyone. And what does a note prove anyway? There’s no indication of the writer’s identity. If I made a fuss, word would get round the prison and I could be more vulnerable than before.

  I can’t think straight. Instead, I concentrate on cutting out my squares and then putting the scissors safely back.

  Block it out, I tell myself firmly. It didn’t happen.

  I have six students today – including Barry – and a cocky youth. When I explain they are going to start off by sketching each other, the latter rolls his eyes. ‘Piece of piss.’

  I am constantly surprised by how childish some of these prisoners are. Was it that immaturity that got them into trouble in the first place? There are times when I feel like throwing all this in to concentrate on m
y local authority classes and my lovely students like Beryl. She wouldn’t put a drawing pin through my face.

  ‘Begin by making dots for the nose, eyes and ears,’ I start to say. But then the door opens. An old man with a walking stick and large cauliflower ears. A pair of bright blue eyes fix on me. He grabs the back of the nearest chair as if needing to steady himself.

  ‘This is Stefan, the new student I was telling you about.’ Kurt sounds nervous. Why?

  ‘Is it OK if I join the class, miss?’ The old man has a strange accent. Eastern European, I think.

  He’s late. I should say no. Besides, it makes for uneven numbers. It means he has to draw me. And I have to draw him. But he seems pretty harmless. Surely an old man with a stick can’t be dangerous. Not like my defaced photograph and the I’M GOING TO GET YOU.

  The others take full advantage of the fact that I can’t watch them and draw Stefan at the same time.

  ‘I don’t want to draw Stan, miss. His nose is too big.’

  ‘Piss off, Wayne. Your ears are small. Just like your …’

  ‘Language.’ Kurt cuts in. ‘You’re talking in front of a lady.’

  ‘Teacher’s pet,’ says someone else.

  Kurt smirks as though he likes this idea. Although he’s ostensibly always trying to help, I’m uneasy about the way he pops up wherever I go. As for the drumming up of business, is he doing it out of the kindness of his heart or because he’s expecting a favour back? Now I’ve made it worse by confiding in him about Barry.

  Maybe I’ll look up Kurt’s crime when I get home. A quick Google. That’s all it takes.

  But if I find out he has done something awful, I know I’ll find it difficult to work with him. And, although I don’t want to admit it, I’ve come to need him.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea anyone?’ he asks now, interrupting my thoughts.

  Grandad – Barry – thumps his mug on the table. I shudder.

  There’s a kettle for tea and coffee in the room, even though boiling water is potentially dangerous. An open prison, I am learning, is a maze of contradictions. Criminals can make tea during class. Tea which could scald someone, especially if thrown deliberately. But they can’t have sharp objects. Criminals can go out of the prison to work in those little white vans. But they must be ready to pick up the same van at the allotted spot, so they get back to their cell on time.

  Meanwhile, Stefan is concentrating on his drawing. He seems completely absorbed, ignoring all the noise around him. ‘Want to take a look?’ he asks, suddenly glancing up, as though sensing my eyes on him.

  I gasp. It’s good. Very good. He has captured the shadowing on my face perfectly. Shadowing is notoriously tough to get right. It almost makes me forget the shock of earlier.

  ‘Have you drawn before?’ I ask.

  ‘A long time ago. We do not have artist teachers in the prison I have just left.’

  Barry interrupts. ‘Will you put it on the wall for everyone to see? Can my cat pictures go there too?’

  Just the sound of his voice freaks me out now I know what he’s done. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

  I turn away and, as I do so, unexpectedly collide with Kurt, knocking the mug of tea from his hand. Luckily, it’s not scalding hot, but it has stained my white top. Blast. I scrabble for some wet wipes which I know I have in my drawer somewhere.

  Out of nowhere, there’s an ear-piercing scream.

  ‘Jesus! I’ve been fucking stabbed!’

  For a minute, I think it’s a joke. One of them messing around.

  Then my blood chills.

  Barry is lying, face upwards, on the ground. Howling in agony. There’s a pair of scissors by his side. The same scissors I’d cut up the paper with before class started. I stumble towards him. All around me the men are jumping up.

  My ears ring with shock. My skin sweats. My heart thumps so hard that it’s like having a weighty pendulum in my chest. No. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

  Barry’s left eye is staring glassily at me. The right is a red pool of dark crimson blood gushing down the side of his face.

  10

  November 2016

  Kitty

  The dentist fucking hurt.

  ‘Hold her down, will you?’ he kept saying to the nurse.

  ‘I can’t. Not while she’s lashing out at me like this.’

  I’m not being difficult, Kitty wanted to say. I’m trying to tell you that you’re bruising my lip.

  But it was impossible to talk with all this stuff in her mouth. And even if she did, he wouldn’t understand her. She should be used to this by now, Kitty told herself.

  But Johnny could guess her thoughts. More or less. She also loved the fact that his own teeth weren’t great either. They stuck out at strange angles and had a big thick silver band on them.

  ‘Hold her down firmer please.’ The dentist’s voice now had a hint of desperation in it. ‘Otherwise the impression isn’t going to fit.’

  ‘Can you sit still, dear?’ The nurse’s voice was softer. A bit wet and wishy-washy. It reminded Kitty of Friday Mum, who hadn’t visited for a few Fridays now. ‘Try thinking of something nice.’

  Johnny.

  Beating the flabby-faced man into a pulp. Just like they did on telly.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the nurse encouragingly. ‘Now the dentist can do his job properly. Well done, Kitty!’

  Not long now until she’d be sitting next to Johnny. His kiss was safely inside her pocket. She’d caught it in the air with her good hand.

  ‘All done now. Good girl.’

  Kitty glowed. Not many people called her a good girl. ‘Challenging’ was one of Bossy Supervisor’s favourite phrases. ‘Chatterbox’ was another (usually from one of the carers). ‘Pretty,’ Johnny had said just before she’d left. The carers had put her in a brown checked dress that Friday Mum had brought in on her last visit. ‘The Super says you need to look nice for the dentist.’ Had Johnny meant that it was just the dress that was pretty? Or her too? Would he mind that the dress was covered in bloody spit because she refused to wear the dental bib?

  All the way back in the van, Kitty hoped and hoped that Johnny would be there to meet her like he’d promised. Hummm. Hummm.

  ‘You’ve still got that ugly gap between your teeth.’ Duncan – scratching away – was hovering in the front entrance as they wheeled her in. ‘Thought you’d gone to the dentist to get it fixed.’

  ‘That’s because they’ve only done the impression, stupid,’ Kitty said. ‘And while we’re at it, why don’t you ask them for a different cream? It might stop you tearing at your fucking skin like that.’

  ‘Babble, babble!’ Duncan threw her a pitying look. ‘It’s all you ever do, isn’t it, Kitty? By the way, you’ve missed band practice. It’s over now.’

  Bugger! Desperately, Kitty looked around for Johnny. Maybe in the communal lounge. Pushing the wheelchair herself with her good hand, she peeped round. Empty. Apart from Tea Trolley Lady, clearing up.

  ‘Johnny,’ Kitty said urgently. ‘I want him.’

  ‘Back now, are you, love? You just sit by the electric fire there and have a bit of a snooze. Expect you’re tired from your visit.’

  Maybe, Kitty told herself, Johnny was playing noughts and crosses in the games room. Johnny had told her he was good at board games, too. He was going to teach her how to play Pictionary. He’d promised.

  ‘Want an iced bun while you’re waiting?’ offered Tea Trolley Lady. ‘It so happens that I’ve got two of them going spare! Yours and Johnny’s. That lovely boy with nice manners. Went down with a temperature, he did, during that little music session. So he missed out on his afternoon snack.’

  Temperature? What if he got so ill that he was sent home? Or to hospital? Kitty felt a wave of panic at the thought of the word hospital. Why?

  No. The memory had gone before it had properly arrived.

  Instead, she was ready to zoom. She needed to find him. Quickly. Even if it was against all the rules.


  ‘Going … to … Johnny’s room … are … you?’ Margaret’s voice cut in as Kitty passed her on the corridor near their room. ‘You’ll get … caught. You … know … you’re … not … allowed … down … the … boys’ end. Hang …on … a sec … and … I’ll see … what … I can … do … to help.’

  Margaret’s breathing often got worse, Kitty had noticed, when Margaret did or didn’t want to do something. But she didn’t usually help others like she was doing now.

  A voice rang out at the other end of the corridor. ‘Room Three’s pulled the emergency cord.’

  ‘Go … go,’ rasped Margaret.

  Quick, quick, before someone spotted her. Down this passage. Turn left. Good hand hurting. Right here. Now, which door was it?

  There. J for Johnny. It was slightly ajar. Kitty pushed her chair in but it got stuck.

  ‘Who’s that?’ The voice came from the bed. ‘Kitty? It’s you?’

  Poor Johnny’s nose was really red. His forehead was all sweaty. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  Really? Kitty felt a buzz of electric excitement zipping through her as she manoeuvred her chair right up to the edge of his bed.

  ‘I felt terrible not meeting you when you got back as I promised. But I got a temperature almost as soon as you’d gone and now this awful headache. I often get them since the attack.’

  ‘What attack?’

  ‘I’m guessing you’re wondering what happened.’

  Yes!

  ‘You know I was born with Down’s syndrome.’ His face took on a faraway look. ‘But there’s more to it than that. One night, I was in a pub with my mates and this thug came up to me and started taking the mickey out of me cos of the way I look. My friends told him to bugger off but then this bloke smashed his bottle of beer into my head. Never been quite the same since.’

  Then Johnny laughed in the way people did when something wasn’t really funny.

  ‘Poor you,’ said Kitty.

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’ His big eyes stared up at her. ‘How was the dentist?’